067; Untitled.

I wrote this in December 2010, but it still holds true.

Lately I've been craving skin, affection, protection, safety, a warm-blooded body next to mine. But I can't, for several reasons, and I feel I might never have anyone. I might never be able to let someone in, let myself go, give in. I feel like there might be some trauma hidden beneath all this skin and neural tissue, in the marrow of my bone, the very core of me.

I have far too many insecurities--I might never be satisfied with myself.

060; That's just me, thinking of you.

You write "there's 'her' and then there's everyone else", and it brings tears to my eyes, makes me nauseous, and my heart flutters. And I think, why? Why do you get to me when no one else does? Why do I even think you're referring to me? WHY? It makes me sick, and I wish this would just stop, I hate you but I love you but I hate you but I love you but I hate you but I need you. You drive me fucking insane, and I hate that you're right, that you will always be right, and I am still your hostage, always will be, can never escape these chains. You came back, and I left. I ditched you because I can't handle rejection, I can't handle these feelings, I can't handle shit. It scares me to fucking death. I left you, and still I feel like you gave up on me. Everything is a contradiction, and I can't make heads or tails of anything.

"But you still feel me like I'm right there at your side."

You told me I was the most difficult woman you ever met.

Fuck.

045; I am too pure for you or anyone.

If all I have to do to keep you is to say yes then I will say it again and again and again, if it means you will hold me together, if it means you'll stay in my life, if it means that when you sing, you sing for me, then yes. Believe me when I tell you that I will never say no to you, I will do anything to keep you, and I will let you unwrap me like a present, revealing layer after layer, until I am all bare, all porcelain skin and Japanese paper, underneath your roughened hands.

A sacrifice.

042; We're like fire and gasoline.

when you play, I search for clues
in the way you move your fingers across the strings
or the way you close your eyes
when you hit certain notes
and I wish I could see inside, but
you're a mystery to me

when you play, I can feel my heart
breaking inside my chest
and I find myself wondering if your heart is
breaking too (is it?)
and I wish you would
tell me
(whisper
in my ear)

when you play, I want to
close my fingers around your wrist
to count your pulse and see if it matches the melody
that you're playing (are you playing for me?)
and I can only wish
that your fingers were tracing my spine
vertebrae by vertebrae
instead

and when your lips mouth along
to the lines of a song,
I wish I could feel them moving against mine
mylipsmycheeksmyjawmyneckmyspine
across every single bone in my body
and I wish that you knew
that I'm really no good for you
(I know I'm no good for you)

(I will only ever let you down)

032; Living on a diet of chocolate and cigarettes.

"I did not like to be touched, but it was a strange dislike. Even now, when people lean down to touch me, or hug me, to put a hand on my shoulder, I hold my breath. I turn my face. I want to cry."

— Marya Hornbacher

I am alive. For better or for worse. I woke up in a feverish state several times last night. There's a storm raging outside and all I want to do is cry. I binged and I wanted to purge but I didn't and I feel so fucking fat. I've stayed in my room, in bed, avoiding everyone and anything. I just want to sleep. It's all too much. The littlest things set me off. Everything's too loud, there are too many people around, it's too bright. Both mother and brother tried to hug me, and my mask slipped, and I snapped. It evoked so much rage that it scared even me. I hate being touched. And I shy away, but really, all I want is to be held; I long for an embrace to fold myself into. Someone to disappear into. I just want to be not me for a while. I want someone to care. I need you to notice, but you probably forgot to remember me. (Did you?) And yet I hate this; being so vulnerable, so needy, so dependent. (I just want to hear your voice. Where are you?)

How do you continue living when you hate the very bones of yourself, the simple fact that you exist, in this world, today?

003; I would sleep in your shirt, and hibernate away the hurt...

"When I am lonely for boys it's their bodies I miss. I study their hands lifting the cigarettes in the darkness of the movie theaters, the slope of a shoulder, the angle of a hip. Looking at them sideways, I examine them in different lights. My love for them is visual: that is the part of them I would like to possess. Don't move, I think. Stay like that. Let me have that."

— Margaret Atwood

Lately I've been craving closeness and familiarity; red wine haze, silent understanding, warm skin under covers. I'm nostalgic for skin and strong arms, someone to hold me, I need to feel safe. But as soon as I talk about these things, I hate myself for wanting them, for being so pathetic. I don't function in relationships--I lose myself in love, I depend so completely on the other, I crave affection, I stop existing. And in an instant, I'll need to be alone, I'll fight and scream, push the other away, I raise the walls back up. Because I know you will leave, you always do.

But I need an escape, someone to disappear into, a body to hide in, skin to trace with my fingers, freckles and moles to explore, protection from the world.

Songs I've been listening to a lot lately:

† Breathe Me by Sia

† Poison Oak by Bright Eyes

† Ginger by Lovers

† Mr. Gaunt PT 1000 by Soap&Skin

† Baby by Warpaint